These Last Days of Autumn Rain
by en extase
Summary: Torn from his friends and guardians by a cascading war, Harry finds safe haven at Beauxbatons. He has his respite, though the Dark Lord's reach grows ever-longer. Harry/Fleur. UNDER REWRITE.
1. A Summertime of War

It's been a long while since I've written anything I felt was suitable to post, so I'm really excited to share this. My sincere thanks to Swimdraconian; working with him as a beta has kept me in touch with writing and helped me improve by leaps and bounds even while I was struggling to get words onto paper. He's the author of _Circular Reasoning,_ and seeing his talent and discipline at work has been inspiring.

One thing that I can promise without the slightest hesitation is that this is going to be original. You haven't read anything remotely like it.

* * *

_Smoke and ashfall, withered leaves in a dead summer breeze– Britain is a warzone in which the Dark Lord's reach grows ever-longer. Torn from his friends and guardians, Harry finds safe haven at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. He must cope with loneliness in these new circumstances, heartbreak for his lost homeland, and the new reality of his life. His respite is short, and war is never far behind.  
_

* * *

**These Last Days of Autumn Rain**

Prologue

A Summertime of War

Blood pooled into the tiny craters on the surface of the tarmac. It crawled over the tar and broken stone until it ran flush against the tire of an abandoned automobile. Meeting this unexpected resistance, the flow faltered until it was joined by a fresh tributary. It continued down the road, staining the scattered glass fragments and spent bullet shell casings. Further it went, veering to the side as the evening wind changed course, until it seeped through the grilles in gutters and sewer drains like morbid wet paint, mingling with the urban runoff.

The liquid was only faintly visible in the waning sunlight, robbed of its deep scarlet hues by dusk. Shadows danced over the lonely view of the devastated road and thoroughfare. Power lines dangled, erratic sparks leaping between the snapped cables. The dark glass facades of derelict establishments and shopping venues reflected an empty shell of a city.

Masterless strays bayed to the darkening skies, but their mournful howling did nothing to deter the lone pedestrian walking down the sidewalk. Dressed in a dark overcoat, carrying a briefcase and moving with the brim of his hat lowered, he had every air of a man with an appointment to keep. His long strides could not disguise an uneven gait but he spurned the use of a cane or crutches.

He strode ungracefully past an abandoned truck, and started as arms shot through the empty windowpane next to the driver's seat.

Composure lost in an instant as rough fingers closed around his throat, he shouted hoarsely as his assailant tightened his hold. He flailed around and in a burst of desperate energy broke free, tumbling onto the pavement. He scrambled backward away from the vehicle, fumbling for his wand. His fingers closed on the sleek wood, and he yanked it out of his coat.

He was met with the sound of stifled laughter. The familiarity of the sound, the bright timbre, was the only thing that made him hold his tongue and kept the curse from leaving his lips. The panic receded when he realized that whoever had ambushed him wasn't pressing the attack. Instead, the man inside was leaning forward in the driver's seat, face obscured by a faded baseball cap as he buried his face in his arms, pressed against the dashboard. His shoulders were quivering with the effort of muffling his guffaws. Cautiously, the rattled pedestrian approached and whispered _Lumos_, peering closer at the man's face. The man raised his head and turned toward him, letting the soft light bathe over him.

Recognizing him, the man let his wand arm drop to his side.

"What is wrong with you, you crazy piece of shit!" he bellowed. "How'd you like to be a smear in the scrap pile, huh?"

Wiping away tears of mirth, the man flung away the baseball cap and turned to face him. He grinned, revealing perfectly whitened teeth.

"Easy there, just laying out the welcome mat, and maybe giving you a lesson in situational awareness."

He leaned across the passenger's seat to unlock the side door of the automobile and patted the faded leather.

"Buckle yourself in, Francis. I have very good reason to bring you here."

Grumbling under his breath and still holding his wand, Francis bent down to retrieve his hat and hobbled over to the other side of the car. He tossed his briefcase into the rear seats and seated himself. His expression stayed sour as his friend revved the engine and eased the truck into the opposite lane.

"When did you learn to drive? I thought you were as pureblood as they come."

"Figured it out few days ago. This is the ideal learning environment, wouldn't you agree? No need to worry about traffic, muggle please-men, or old ladies crossing the street - though I did run one over the other day. Amazing how we always somehow seem to miss a few of them in our patrols."

Francis marveled at the desolate wasteland the city had become under his friend's - Sam's - care. He stared into the yawning maw of a Dark Mark, painted onto the front face of a grammar school at the corner of the street. It was a recurring motif, scarring apartments and businesses and office buildings alike. They glowed a sinister pale green in the half-darkness and seemed to be watching everything that moved.

A faint tremor distracted him, the vibrations causing a ferocious rattling all around the interior of the truck. He glanced upward, and leaned forward to get a better view at its source. He blinked in astonishment as an entire tower in the distant skyline collapsed, raising plumes of dust and tearing down everything beneath it in its fall. If the aftershocks could be felt here, it must have wreaked unimaginable havoc on the other side of the city.

"Demolition work in the business district, pay it no mind - oh, one sec."

The screech of the brakes and sudden cessation of momentum pitched Francis's body forward, until his seat belt held him in check.

More tremors, this time following one another in quick succession and growing heavier. The loose parts in the truck clicked and clacked in response as whatever was moving their way got nearer.

The abrupt appearance of a troll's monstrous head caused Francis to involuntarily press back into his seat. It took up the entire windshield, magnifying its blunt, misshapen features and the narrow scars that crisscrossed its face. Its breath fogged up the glass and a single eye darted between the two men, its pupil surpassing the size of a human fist.

It was all Francis could do not to squirm, while Sam flipped the bird merrily in greeting. The troll blinked at the unfamiliar gesture, then snorted and lifted its head out of the way. Its receding footsteps shook the asphalt, and Francis's associate waited a few moments before easing the truck into motion again.

"It knows you?" Francis asked, clearing his throat. "I always thought that facial recognition was beyond the brutes."

His friend shrugged noncommittally.

"They're not quite that dumb, to be honest."

Shrugging, Francis contented himself with watching the sidelong blur as the truck passed the interchange and went down an entrance ramp.

"So, everything going well?" Sam asked, casually. "There are cigarettes and a lighter in the glove box, by the way."

"Things are progressing well enough. It's a tricky business, coercing giants to the cause. You have the easier job, by far." Francis opened the glove box and helped himself.

"One thing puzzles me," he continued, pursing his lips around the end of the cigarette as he lit it. "I don't understand the length to which You-Know-Who is going to seize Harry Potter. We aren't the only professionals he has on his payroll. He's got the Huscarl scouring South America when he got wind of there being an Order safehouse over there, and he's negotiating a contract with the Fidelis Fraternitas too. It is rather impressive that Potter's bounty hasn't been claimed, considering how badly You-Know-Who wants him."

"The world's a wide place," Sam observed, eyes focused on the road.

"Not wide enough," Francis retorted, careless tossing away the spent cigarette. Molten embers trailed behind it in diaphanous spirals as it landed on the road.

"Are you aware of the prophecy? What everyone thinks it says?"

"Yes, I just don't put much stock into them on principle."

"Evidently _he _puts stock into them. That's all that matters."

"Sure. And it's something of a risk on the Huscarl's part to accept an assignment from You-Know-Who at all. He doesn't bear failure, in any form. You can do a hundred things right, but do one thing wrong and it destroys you. But so far, we haven't made that one mistake."

Sam chuckled in response.

"Well, I did something very right," he said conspiratorially, his voice falling to a whisper, "I want you to be my guest tonight."

The cigarette died inexplicably, extinguished by nothing more than air.

A deep feeling of unease was starting to materialize.

"Something's not right about this."

Sam guided the car down the ramp. The boughs of trees swayed above them, ambient light trickling between the leaves. It was a pretty image, but it served only to heighten his anxiety.

"First things first. You don't see this every day, Francis."

The windshield was frosting over, and the defined beams of the headlights mysteriously dissipated into the air.

They were facing the waterfront. At first, the dark waters seemed to meld seamlessly with the dusk. But he noticed subtle threads of movement, passing shadows that flickered over the silent buildings lining the boardwalk the other side of the river and gave the impression that the air was alive.

His eyes widened in understanding.

Sam was right.

Hundreds, thousands of tattered, ebon cloaks that barely concealed skeletal forms sluiced weightlessly through the nighttime air, well beyond the reach of the swaying waters below. The faces of the apparitions were hidden under sable hoods, if they existed at all. The masts of the sailboats harbored along the wharfs were bowed, as if in meek deference to the procession of wraiths. Another shockwave shook the truck as another high-rise toppled, but they didn't register to Francis. He could only sit there numbly.

Then the headlights died entirely. Francis clutched at the door's handhold with an iron, white-knuckled grip.

They were gliding across the water, heading to the other side of the city where Ministry personnel still contested the city. Francis hadn't realized the Ministry had ever controlled the demonic wraiths in such multitudes. Or maybe they'd been allowed to breed in the charnel pits of Muggle misery and terror, their numbers burgeoning beyond historic record?

He didn't care to know.

"Stop wasting my time," Francis hissed, heartbeat hammering in his ears.

His companion hit the gas pedal, but the vehicle remained inert. He fumbled with the keys, trying to restart the engine to no avail.

"Ah, they killed the car, somehow. Don't worry, it's not far from here."

They continued the way on foot. Francis wordlessly accepted a handful of chocolate, biting into the frog's head savagely. The warmth that spread through his limbs seemed utterly artificial, a threadbare covering against a ravenous cold that could devour him if it chose. He'd rarely felt so vulnerable, especially with his crippled leg. Any manner of creatures he could blast with any spell he chose, but Dementors, and in these numbers, were a different matter entirely. He could all but feel the gentle flutter of their robes in the wind, and wondered whether bad memories would well up from his subconscious like blood from an uncauterized wound.

"My God," Francis muttered. "Sometimes I have to be reminded, that no matter how many ghouls there are in the world, none of them will begin to compare to those fiends."

"I know what you mean," his friend said, similarly unnerved. "But it shows you the state of things. There's no way He's going to lose this war."

Francis saw a faint glimmer of silver in the distance.

They hastened their pace and finally drew near their destination.

It was an office building but seemed like a lighthouse due to the silvery patronii guarding it. Sam unlocked the door and pushed it open, a bell chime signalling their arrival. The silence that greeted them was eerie, the casters of the Patronus sentries were nowhere to be seen.

"So this is where we've set up shop?"

"Yes. It's our beachhead against one of the last positions the Ministry has managed to keep hold of, a few blocks from here. Pardon the others for not being here."

Nonchalant, Sam led him past a row of mail cubbies set up along the wall and to the end of the entrance hallway. They began climbing a grimy staircase.

"And I am sorry for the rather lacking freedom of movement. You know how good the English are at aliasing our apparation signatures, and Avery and the Lestranges were very insistent that we not take any risks. I never thought I'd appreciate Muggle inventions before this assignment."

"You're forgiven," Francis replied, waving the apology off.

They reached the top of the stairs and Sam guided him to the room at the end of the hallway.

He met Francis's eyes meaningfully.

Wary, Francis opened the door and nudged it ajar. Sam ushered him inside, where he set his briefcase against the wall. The office was furnished in the same manner he'd seen countless others: a Beaulieu carpet smudged with faint footprints, mahogany desk, paintings, and a bookcase full of texts that were there purely for effect.

He began unbuttoning his overcoat, but stopped in mid-motion when Sam flipped on the light switch. Suspended in the air in the center of the office was a woman, hair unkempt, arms bound behind her back, and eyes glassily unfocused, robes torn in numerous places. Her body rotated slowly, held aloft by invisible tenterhooks.

"This is her?" Francis asked, unlatching the briefcase and producing a length of razor-wire. "You're certain?"

"Yes. The respected Minerva McGonagall."

Sam drew his own wand, and its point radiated a livid ruby light as bright as a furnace's fire as he brought it near the unconscious woman's cheek.

"Harry Potter's Secret Keeper."


	2. Outflow from a Dying City

I'm very pleased with the warm response to the first chapter. Three weeks ago I started college, but I found the time to write without too much trouble.

* * *

_The endgame of the Wizarding World wheels into motion._

_For Harry Potter has been found._

* * *

**These Last Days of Autumn Rain**

Chapter One

Outflow from a Dying City

He hated these long, unfathomable nights. Sometimes he stayed absolutely still, motionless, nerves wound up like piano wires. He was prone to become absent-minded for long stretches and reminiscence endlessly. His textbooks lay forgotten, dog-eared with frayed bookmarks where he left off his studies. A slender length of holly lay on the windowsill, within reach. It was a room with an interesting history, a storage for the first mass-production presses in England, yet he felt unbearably old trapped with the rusting machines.

How do the possibilities seep out of life and leave one living like a featureless gray shadow?

Practice spellwork. Read. Eat. Drink. Go to the loo.

Every so often, he would glance out of the windows, and watch the flies hunt for fresh meat and infest the gutters. Enjoy the light shows in the distance.

There wasn't much else to entertain him. A notepad, quill, and inkpot sat at the foot of the lamp perched on his desk. A rosewood wardrobe filled with the same shirts he'd worn for the entire summer stood at the corner. His spectacle case lay on the nightstand next to the bed. Not far from that, a divan was situated in front of the coffee table.

He propped his head up on his hand, his elbow resting on his desk, gazing outwardly into the sorrowful sight of desolate Cummington Street below. Deserted cars, streetlamps that cast no light, listless storefronts, and a flagpole with the Union Jack fluttering feebly, its colors subdued. His face was youthful, though marred by a teeming anxiety that seemed to have permanently stained his expression with the worries of older men. He brushed a hand through his windswept hair in an entirely useless gesture, trying to tame it into a semblance of order.

A nighthawk that had taken roost next to his windowsill caught his attention.

Harry decided to strike up a conversation.

"An interesting life you lead there," he said to the bird as it busied itself about its nest.

"I mean, in comparison to mine," he added for clarification. "You're on the other side of this window pane, after all."

It didn't acknowledge him, and he idly wondered whether it could hear him - or at least physically feel the vibrations of sound. That was an unlikely proposition of course, since that would necessitate being in on the Fidelius.

"Do you know my secret?" he wondered, his mood pensive.

It began grooming itself.

"I don't mind if you know. There's really only one person who I prefer to remain ignorant of my whereabouts."

Giving no indication of having heard him, the nighthawk hopped onto a different shingle.

Harry sighed.

_This is wisdom's folly_, he thought gloomily.

Staying here, hiding in plain sight. In a besieged city, alone, for the most part. There were others, but they didn't know of his presence any more than his enemies did.

He was lonely.

Messengers delivered letters to him by hand, but their visits were few and far between. Ron and Hermione, and many of his friends from Hogwarts besides, were always anxious to hear from him and update him on their own lives.

But the written word loses value without seeing the writer for so long. He tossed the worn letters indiscriminately into untidy piles. The room had an interesting history, housing the first mass-production presses of England.

Harry found himself looking forward to the actual messengers as much as he did correspondence from his friends. Sometimes he knew them and sometimes he did not. They were nearly all dour-faced Aurors, harried and grim with little time to humor a restless boy.

He heard the sound of footsteps proceeding from the stairwell leading to his room.

"Who's down there?"

No answer was forthcoming.

He sat there, a little ill at ease as the footsteps continued.

Sighing, he pushed himself onto his feet and made for the door. He hesitated at the last second, though, for a feeling of premonition raised his hackles. He reached over and grasped his wand from its perch, and prepared to receive his guest.

* * *

Dawlish hunched his shoulders to trap his body warmth as he set foot at the mouth of the alleyway. His hands were tucked under the inner fold of his woolen jacket, and his fingers were curled around his wand, and an important missive bearing the symbol of the Minister.

He looked up, past the facade of low apartment buildings looming in front of him and to the top of the brownstone where the Boy-Who-Lived resided. A select few knew the secret.

These errand runs had the air of the most dangerous missions any Auror had every taken.

This was neutral territory. The feral creatures in his employ were given free reign to plunder any sector of the city they saw fit, but the Dark wizards themselves rarely patrolled this district.

Which was why he felt a sharp unease when he saw an unfamiliar figure standing in his way, partially obscured under the shadows.

There were seventeen other Aurors stationed here with him, and he recognized each of them by sight. There hadn't been transfers in the entire department in weeks, and he wasn't aware of any infiltration operations involving Polyjuice.

"Declare yourself," he said sharply, drawing his wand and formulating the beginnings of a plan of attack.

"No." the stranger said, his refusal simple and flat.

He'd been chosen from the entirety of the Auror corps to serve as bodyguard for the highest official in the wizarding world, the Minister of Magic. And he would acquit himself in the field according to those standards.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked. He began taking steps towards his foe, sweeping his wand from side to side.

"Yes, I know who you are, Mister-bodyguard-for-the-Minister," the stranger said snidely.

"Then you know I'm in no mood to mince words."

"You wouldn't want to compromise your charge, would you?"

Dawlish stopped dead in his tracks, dread clutching his heart.

He had no time to ponder those words, because the ground ruptured beneath him as if hit by a mortar. He was blown off his feet and sent him careening into the side wall with enough force to shatter the shoulder of his wand arm and rattle his teeth. He fell into a collection of trash cans, knocking them over and sending their lids spinning away. He spat, wiping the decayed refuse from his face and tried to right himself, but the spells were already piling up on him too fast. His reflexes, honed over a career spanning a decade, saved him, as he snatched his wand with his off-hand, and parried the spells left-handed. The rebounded curse-light cast mesmerizing splashes of color on the dark walls as they flew in every direction.

"What a rapid turn of events," the stranger said in amusement, "Yesterday you and your Ministry were waging a legitimate war - now you're fighting for a lost cause."

Gritting his teeth, Dawlish pushed himself onto his feet. His foe resumed his attack, moving closer and flinging curses that were taking him too long to recognize and counter properly. Dawlish moved backward, giving ground and frantically trying to find a way to equalize this duel before he completely lost control of his situation. He saw a side door in his periphery, and in a sudden flurry of motion caved it in with a blasting curse and dove into the unlit apartment.

He suppressed the fury and self-loathing that stemmed from being tricked into lowering his guard. He would eliminate his attacker and retrieve the boy.

Dawlish traced his wand over his mangled arm and braced the broken bone, snapping them back together. He put the pain from his hurting insides from the collision with the wall to the back of his mind, for that would require the skills of a healer.

He searched the darkened kitchen for weapons he could use, keeping track of the approaching footsteps and the low chuckles adrift on the breeze.

He began collecting knives and enchanted them so that they shone with a faint cobalt sheen, and began moving deeper into the apartment, trying to find a strategic position from which to dictate the duel when it resumed.

He made for the living room, but instinctively blinked as the light switched on. Unfeasibly strong hands closed around his wrists and squeezed with crushing force, and he shouted hoarsely as his wand was wrested away. When his eyes adjusted, he found himself staring at the smiling, fanged mouth of a vampire. He stood there feebly, unwilling to believe his end had come so ignominiously.

* * *

The doorbell rang.

Harry paused, casting a backward glance toward the window in time to see his companion rustle its wings and abruptly take flight.

The premonition was there, tingling at the forefront of his mind. He'd felt it nearly every time during the first weeks of his stay, when he was still coming to grips with the idea of hiding in the midst of the enemy. It had faded after meeting the messengers and Order members who came to check up on him. Now it was back, full force.

"Who is it?" he repeated firmly.

"It's John, open up."

Harry complied, ready to express his crossness at Dawlish not identifying himself earlier.

He found himself face to face with someone he didn't know.

Before he could find words, his attention was drawn to the man's feet.

There was a dead tabby cat on the doorstep. Its front paws and hind legs were twined together into a bloody mess by rusty wires and spectacle markings adorned its face.

He looked from the cadaver's glassy eyes to the pleased stare of someone he didn't know.

"You little fucking snake," the stranger murmured, a trace of admiration lacing a distinctly American accent, "Hiding in the last place we'd think to look. Yet we have found you."

Harry slammed the door shut and leapt backward.

"_Colloportus!_" he shouted, laying the Sealing Charm on it moments before a forceful spell rattled on its hinges.

It was time to leave.

He snatched up a duffel bag and slung it onto his shoulder and hurried to the window. It took barely a second to register the figures hovering outside his room and see their leering, gleeful faces through the dimly-warped glass.

He went prostrate as the windows shattered and spells scoured the room, raking across the carpet and blasting apart the antiquated printing presses.

_"Stupefy!" _

He shot to his feet in an instant, flinging a stunner into one of the broomriders. The others made to save their comrade from the long fall, but he anticipated that too. His wand blurred, looping as he swept across the room, asserting his magic over every object he could see.

Blood surging in his veins, he Banished everything out of the window, stripping the room almost bare in a high-velocity fusillade. The broomriders reacted, shouting in alarm and darting out of sight as he answered their assault. He had little time to admire his handiwork as he summoned his Firebolt to him and hurled himself over the balustrade, steering himself into the thick of the falling contents of his former residence.

The curses and hexes screamed down at him as the broomriders followed him downward. Shards of wood and metal bit at his exposed neck and tore through the fabric of his shirt as detritus took the spells meant for him and burst apart.

The pain only sharpened his focus, melding with the sensation of the windstreams parting against his form. He controlled the dive with practiced, unthinking precision, flattening it out and accelerating down sorrowful Cummington Street.

In truth, he was glad to be leaving the damn place.


	3. The Mantra that Lulls Him to Sleep, I

This is first action sequence of this scale I've written in years. I'm splitting it into two updates as I'm going to be busy with midterms for the upcoming two weeks, and wanted to make a statement that this story is far from dead.

* * *

_It is not enough that they die  
_

_but that they keep their silence too._

* * *

**These Last Days of Autumn Rain**

Chapter Two

The Mantra that Lulls Him to Sleep

_Part One_

_ They always die_, he thought in despair.

_It doesn't matter how long I've known them, how much Dumbledore trusts them, how much they mean to me, to all of us._

Faces flashed before his mind's eye.

He'd been relocated to Hogwarts after Death Eaters showed up at Surrey uninvited, but in the following weeks many found refuge in the castle. Families were falling one after the other, and the board of governors decided that Hogwarts would be open to them. It was the safest place for the survivors as the Ministry was getting stretched increasingly thin. He'd met many people for the first time, and he'd realized that he was meeting the people of the wizarding world for the first time. Not just students his own age, but the people he'd saved all those years ago. The people who had followed his exploits and great deeds. They had been a faceless multitude, touching his life only through letters and hate mail and fan mail. But they were here, he was here, all of them were here, holed up in the castle that had been their homes.

_And they always _**talk.**

Harry knew full well that it was selfishness, and hated the ugly imperfection it exposed in him. It wasn't enough that they offer their lives on the altar of the Chosen One and die gruesome deaths for him, but they mustn't let their tongues slip.

_Isn't that right, Harry? Isn't that_ right _you ungrateful prick?_

He'd met some that had found a way to hate him, who thought that if Voldemort killed him, their woes would go away. They would cast dark looks at him that he did his best to ignore. But he also met many who held a fervent belief in them that could not be shaken, no matter how clear it was that he was just a teenager caught up in the same hellish conflict they were. It had shaken him to face their hopes and fears, to realize that he, Harry, bore them on his shoulders. If he looked back and pointed to a turning point in his life, this was it. He'd approached Snape and the other Order members as they came and went between their doings. To teach him so that he could fight for their lives as well as his own.

One day, a wizard whose face was half-eaten in an assault by werewolves that had slain his wife and children had tried to garrot Harry at the foot of a stairwell. He'd been on full-moon watch and Dumbledore had taken every precaution in light of his lycanthropy infection, but it was in his human form that he'd struck.

So when it became clear that Hogwarts wasn't safe for him either, he had calmly consented to leave. The only alternative was to force out the other refugees and let them take their chances with what scattered safehouses the beleaguered Ministry could find for them. He didn't have the heart to lessen his own risk at the cost of others' lives, and made his decision without hesitation or regret. He remembered the shiver that traveled through him when he heard the odd note of pride in Dumbledore's voice. The grandfatherly old wizard had wordlessly drawn Harry into a brief hug, squeezing him tightly. He let him go and from that moment forth, they'd been partners; both of them desperate schemers doing their part and Harry voluntarily accepting the burden of a life as a fugitive-recluse.

The Secret Keepers had all been trustworthy witches and wizards, veteran Order members and Ministry personnel who were instrumental to the war effort in their own right. Each brave enough to humble the fabled Godric Gryffindor, but who hailed from all four of the Houses. To the last, they withstood the torments the Dark Lord had visited upon them long enough for the Order to whisk him away.

They were all dead.

_ Vance. _

_Pathertrory._

_ Harrison. _

_LaFaro. _

They were his mantra.

The thoughts that he rewound in his head over and over again as he fell asleep, like a funereal catechism. The moaning phantoms that were holed up in his brain and made him cry himself to sleep and bawl like a child, making him hate his helplessness and redoubling his efforts to to find strength where there was none.

Now Minerva's death was on his head too.

He had flown into the metropolitan heart of the city, into the silent maze of abandoned high-rises and gutted skyscrapers. Now that he'd had won himself a moment to breathe, his mind cleared and he suspected that he'd been herded in this direction by his assailants. He knew that there were other forces fighting for the Dark Lord lurking in the city, but he was counting on his Firebolt's speed to keep him ahead of his hunters.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the reflection of many-coloured light along the glassy expanse of the great high-rises, closing in on his own mirror image in a widespread broadside salvo.

He was jerked away from his thoughts, survival instinct pulling him upward into a sharp ascent that had the strap of his duffel bug pressing against his windpipe and making his eyes bulge at the pressure. Fire erupted below him and he momentarily lost control, smashing through the window and hurtling through the innards of an office building.

The pressure on his throat vanished as he went horizontal again and he gasped down great gulps of air.

_Stupid_, he raged at himself.

He'd checked out mentally before he was truly safe. What would his fallen Secret Keepers think if he gave up his life so cheaply?

Cheaply fabricated cubicles cluttered the interior of the building and calm settled upon him once again - it was a matter of elevating the plane of his broomstick in between the cubicle walls and the ceiling. He steered around the support columns and a central elevator and breakroom, and vanished the glass barrier before emerging into the other side of the building.

Only to find himself facing a veritable horde of broomstick riders rising from the balconies and terraces of buildings and dotting the sky with their numbers.

He looked at them blankly, and it wasn't until the onrushing hailstorm of spells left their wands that he impossibly found his courage again. Baring his teeth, he threw all of his weight to the left and forced himself into a stomach-wrenching downward arc around the side of the building. He couldn't breathe; such was the intensity of the wind as he wrung every vestige of speed the Firebolt had to offer. It threatened to snap under the extreme pressure he was demanding of it at this angle, but he only tightened his hold and pressed on. He threw all of his chances into the hope that his enemies that had taken him by surprise on the other side of the skyscraper were expecting him to make an airborne battle out of it, and were high in the air.

He entered their field of vision like a bullet, skimming the ground by mere feet and gone in the blink of an eye. His hand was already in the duffel bag, searching desperately until he clutched a fistful of coarse material of a knapsack. He yanked it out and fumbled with the string, jilting sideways as he once again flew by leg control alone, eyes watering with his desperate efforts. He held the knapsack by the bottom end and Peruvian darkness powder billowed out of the bottomless sack. It trailed behind him, rising to obscure his form and cloaking entire blocks in a tenebrous dark, impervious to the fiercest winds.

He lost his footing as he tried to hit the ground running. He hadn't decelerated enough in his haste and he sprawled, hissing as his knees slammed against the pavement and the remaining force slamming his head into the ground hard enough to make his vision black out for a moment.

Gasping in pain, he tried groped blindly for his possessions. He found his wand, and with it he summoned his duffel bag and broom. With a momentum charm, he sent the knapsack forward to continue belching out the darkness powder. He transfigured the Firebolt into a miniature toy version of itself and pocketed it, and rummaged through the duffel bag. Its contents were scattered about but only one thing mattered, and he uttered a prayer of thanks when found it.

Light emanated from the withered Hand of Glory in his grasp. With it in one hand and his wand in the other, he waded through the darkness he'd created, anxiously searching for a place to hole up in. The Peruvian darkness couldn't be banished by sorcerous means and would conceal him for a while, but he needed to get off the streets. Forcing them down from the air would make them cover more ground, and buy enough time for the Aurors present in the city to mount a rescue operation, he hoped. It was a frail hope, as only Dawlish had known the Secret, but he would live for a little longer either way.

The front facade of a towering building came into view. The silver-lettered legend of **_Norton Rose_**, the London-based law firm, adorned the front entrance of the building, above a set of elegant double doors. A many-storey glass atrium stretched before him, but disappeared upward into the dark.

_This will do_, he decided.

He stumbled as a heavy tremor made him fall forward onto the entrance steps. Regaining his footing, he glanced over his shoulder.

He saw a massive silhouette lurk at the edge of the Hand of Glory's light, and blanched as a troll lumbered into sight, its huge bulk moving inexorably towards him. He had never seen one of that mass before.

All his instincts screamed at him to run but he lingered, studying the creature for signs that it recognized him. The Hand of Glory granted light only to its holder. By all rights he should be safe from the beast.

Only, its malformed face was bearing what was unmistakably a grin.

"Oh no," he muttered.

How had it tracked him? From the sound of his footsteps?

Harry spun around and wormed his way through the doors as the troll lurched to a freight rig truck abandoned on the road, and in an immense display of strength, wrenched it from the ground and flung it at him. It tumbled through the air like a meteorite, and that was the last he saw of it.

His feet pounded across the empty lobby as he ran for his life. The freight rig exploded through the darkness and pulverized the entrance in a devastating hurricane of sound. It slashed through the ceiling and a river of sparks flew as its metal carapace screeched along the immaculate floor, crushing the security desk, the wall behind it, and every pillar in its way. Harry flung himself to the side of the left hallway past the lobby, heart pounding as he flattened his back against the wall. The percussive blast of thunderclaps came one after the other and sent shudders and tortured groans that warped and bent the building's very bones.

He was already moving when the chaos subsided, knowing the troll would be hot on his heels. He heard a baying roar, its source not far behind, and the pounding footfalls were catching up with frightening speed.

He gave a moment's pause when he spotted a floor plan of the building's interior.

_There's no time_.

In a burst of frenetic energy, he shattered the covering, tore the map off the wall and tucked it under his arm. He hobbled forward and tried to keep a precarious grip on the map, his wand, and the Hand all at once. His eyes stayed fixed on the prize - an elevator at the end of the hallway. With a sweeping motion of his wand he forced the elevator doors open and nearly fell as his feet met empty air. He slammed into the steel cable in the center of the elevator shaft and clutched it desperately. He pointed his wand over his back and sealed the doors shut with a hurried wand movement, leaving him hanging from the cable alone in the enclosed shaft.

He listened to the sound of the troll's rampage fade away, hardly daring to believe his luck and willing his runaway heartbeat to slow down.

The adrenaline slowly left him, and he calmly cast a levitation charm on the Hand so that it hovered near his head and provided light. He clenched his wand to his teeth as he carefully extricated the map from beneath his arm.

He studied the layout. There were three buildings that made up the campus of the law firm headquarters, and were connected on the tenth floor by a series of skyways. His best chance would be to move to one of those adjoining buildings before the troll tore the central one down. He nodded, finding belief in his plan. He'd use the beast's dim intellect to his advantage and make a quiet escape when it wasn't looking.

He conjured leather gloves and he worked them onto his hands one by one before renewing his grasp on the steel cable. He hauled himself up and locked his legs around it. Huffing with exertion, he began pulling himself upward. His muscles had seen little use in his stays as a Fidelius protectee, and it made him relish the physical challenge even more. Sweat shone on his skin, and the grueling effort swept away the haze of fear and jittery nervousness that had clouded his mind.

Ten floors was a long way to go.


End file.
